


Time for Family

by twowritehands



Category: The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth - All Media Types
Genre: Adoption, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Era, Domestic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 23:26:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1099799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twowritehands/pseuds/twowritehands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marcus and Esca adopt a Seal People boy and take him back to Calleva.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time for Family

**Author's Note:**

> Very loosely based on this prompt:  
> http://the-eagle-kink.livejournal.com/5005.html?thread=4610701t4610701
> 
> If there is anything glaringly wrong in this story, don’t be afraid to point it out. Just be nice as you do it, please. Based everything on other canon era fics/movies-set-in-Rome/very distant memories of world history class. I’m pretty happy with it, but I don’t mind learning.

It does not matter that Marcus’ mind flits from the idea like a hand instinctually from a flame.

 _I will kill you_ he’d said. And he meant it.

Marcus’ honor and self-dignity demand Esca’s death, an end to the man responsible for Marcus being tied to the back of a horse and _dragged_ over the highlands, for being made to sleep and eat and bathe with filthy slaves, for being beaten just because he happened to look in the direction of a woman.

Thinking on it, Marcus knows he will cut Esca’s throat--a faster death for Esca would be stabbing him in the heart but Marcus must go for swiftness and ease over mercy, for surely he’ll have to fight and run for his life as soon as Esca is dead.

For the hundredth time, the roman’s mind jumps away from the idea of ending Esca’s life and his stomach turns. He does not want to kill Esca, his friend, so small yet so strong…

…so beautiful…

This Marcus turns his thoughts from as well, with the same instinct to avoid pain which keeps him avoiding thoughts of Esca’s dead weight in his hands. Because Esca has changed, and it does no good to remember who he used to be.

Beautiful Esca, his friend, doesn’t exist anymore.

Gone are those almost amused expressions of his, those confident but softly spoken opinions, and his frequent but-probably-thoughtless hand grazes (the backs of his hands soft but for rough knuckles)… Then on the journey beyond the wall, before this place, Esca’s happily offered skillset that had kept them both alive in this wilderness, his dark eyes looking across the fire at Marcus, shining in the light…

That Esca was a lie.

That Esca was a man in slavery, bidding his time and--how had Uncle put it?--doing only what he had to do _._

Marcus had not understood what Uncle meant by that, not really. Not until now. He had thought, _how could anyone ever be anything but themselves, do anything they truly don’t want to do_? But now, as a slave, Marcus knows how a man who is alone in a gods-forsaken land amidst his enemies must bow and scrape and serve them despite every fiber of his being burning for justice.

Marcus knows how a slave _pretends_ for his masters.

It physically hurts to think that all that time, Esca was pretending. All that time, this sickening hatred churning Marcus’ blood was how Esca felt as he tied Marcus’ sandal every single morning and untied it every single night. As he laughed while they hunted, as he hummed tribal songs while he skinned rabbits for their dinner… all that time he’d hated like this, hated it all…

Marcus thinks that after he kills Esca, he won’t run, but will let these savages kill him (taking out as many as he can on the way, like a proper Roman, of course). He might as well. Without Esca, he’ll never find the Eagle and get back to Rome for that life he always promised himself. The home, the farm, the wife and kids….

And if he just abandons the lost standard and returns to Rome a coward, there will be no such life there for him. He will lounge around at his uncle’s comfortable villa, rotting and forgetting, living on without Esca’s quiet expressions to puzzle or charm him at surprising moments.

The wind is relentless in the north, where not even trees want to be. Its bitter force is currently thick with the scent of grass and manure. Marcus huddles on a hillside and watches several small boys play a game with painted bones. They look like they are having fun; the only sounds Marcus can hear are the roaring of the wind and scattered bits of Seal People language as women gossip over their fires and men mingle in knots and boast, and the boys laugh.

Marcus knows Esca is sitting at a fire with the chief, but he does not look over there--he cannot look at Esca, much like he cannot think of Esca’s necessary death or Esca’s fingers and how they used to graze his ankles as he tied sandal laces, always taking his time for some reason.

No, can’t think of that.

He hears a laugh rise on the wind and it is Esca’s, Marcus knows without looking. He’s heard that laugh hunting boar and other game. It is quick--a snatch in the roar of the wind and the other sounds of camp. Marcus grits his teeth, closes his eyes, and tries to hold his heart together, though it is breaking at the idea that his friend is now so friendly with his enemies. Is now _one of them_.

Over a hill comes the most excited of the sounds Marcus has heard for several hours. It is a boy of nearly eight laughing and shouting as he plays with a lean grey dog that in size can make a pony for the child.

The dog yips happily and the boy calls out commands, throwing knotted cloth for the dog to retrieve and every time she brings it back, she bowls him over and pins him to the ground and licks his face, all to his delight.

The sight has Marcus grinning, remembering dogs he’d had as a child, but then a sharp sound from the knot of warriors nearest the boy --Esca’s group--startles the child and Marcus both. A man detaches himself from the others and strides over to dog and boy, giving the hound a fierce knock that makes her yelp loudly and run off with her tail between her legs.

Then the father lifts his son to his feet by the hair and shouts at him. By his hand gestures around the camp, Marcus can only guess that the boy has forgotten his chores.

The man bodily shakes the boy, then backhands him and throws him to the ground. Marcus goes to his feet. But there is nothing he can do--he’s been forbidden to wander around the camp unless he is performing a task, otherwise he must remain here on the fringes with the other slaves.

The wind tugs at Marcus’ clothing as he stands and watches. The Roman wants the fallen Seal People boy to pick himself up and do his chores. But he lays there, shoulders shaking with sobs. Marcus grits his teeth and sits down.

 _Pathetic savage_ , he can’t help but think.

Then a figure approaches the boy and Marcus’ heart skips because it is Esca, going to a knee beside the small shape and dropping a strong but comforting hand on the shaking shoulder. Marcus can’t hear a thing, but he sees Esca’s mouth move, his lips make the odd shapes that bring that eerie, yet beautiful language.

The boy sits up, dries his eyes and gets himself to his feet all under his own power. Esca, smirking in a way too familiar to Marcus, stands up with him and puts a hand back on the now-steady shoulder. More words pass between them and the boy nods and runs off to do his chores.

Esca watches him go, then looks over dead center into Marcus’ eye.

The smile on the Roman’s lips dies instantly and a muscle jumps in his jaw. He stubbornly stretches back in the coarse grass and turns to his side as if for sleep.

…. .…  …..

The fight for the Eagle and his father’s ring has left Marcus wounded in his bad leg, but adrenaline keeps him going as he and Esca leave the cave and return to camp with the eagle, find horses and quickly prepare them to escape before the Seal People wake up.

“Esca!”

It is the boy. Esca stops what he is doing to talk with him. Marcus can’t understand a word of what they say to each other, but he understands that the boy doesn’t want him to go--Marcus understands because he has felt the same. Esca has not only shown this boy kindness after every blow delivered to him, but Esca has eaten with him, played with him, walked with him like an equal.

Esca did all of that stuff for Marcus back at Calleva and on the journey here. Then Esca had left him, as he is leaving this boy now, and Marcus understands how dark the future can look with no hope of seeing Esca again.

He feels bad for the boy, he truly does, but it cannot be helped. The Eagle must get back to Rome, but more urgently than that, Marcus and Esca must run and run _now_ before they are killed.

Marcus remembers that this boy is the son of a man who beats him as frequently as he beats slaves and dogs. Without the kindness such as Esca--and only Esca --has shown him, chances are that he will not survive into manhood. Marcus makes the suggestion out of the goodness of his heart; it will solve all problems swiftly and efficiently.

Death will be a better alternative to such a cold life, surely, and it will ensure that he and Esca get away without being caught.

“If he wakes them we are dead,” Marcus says to his friend, letting his solution be evident in his tone. Esca’s head whips around and the fiery look in those dark eyes is purely _No_.

But time and discretion are of the utmost importance here. Gritting his teeth, Marcus finds that hardened Roman inside himself--the one that kills when he must--and hisses, “Esca, we can’t let him live!”

“We will!” Esca snaps, eyes ablaze. “He will _not_ betray us!”

“If he’s beaten enough he will,” Marcus says, forcing his voice to remain low and calm. He sees that Esca knows this is true. The pain on his friend’s face at the thought is intolerable.

Marcus knows now that Esca could never kill a child and that this entire You Are My Slave thing was more than just a way to keep them both alive among a people who despise Romans, but was also a sort of penance for Marcus’ heartless murder of the boy in the river.

So the next option that occurs to Marcus is crazy--but the boy is eight or so, which is more than a burdensome babe, and he is strongly built and looking at Esca like he will climb mountains if asked, so Marcus sets his jaw.

The Roman pushes past Esca and goes straight for the boy, whose eyes bug out as he turns to run. Esca hisses an objection but Marcus is quick and grabs the small savage.

One strong arm loops around a tiny waist and the roman soldier turns and heads for the horses, carrying the child under one arm like a helmet. He smirks at the confused look on Esca’s face as he says, “Then he’ll have to come with us. You’ll smaller, he’ll ride with you.”

Esca’s face slackens in surprise and his dark eyes study Marcus’ face intently, as if looking for the joke, still waiting for Marcus to kill the boy as a kind of punch line. Meanwhile, not understanding Marcus’ Latin, the boy doesn’t know what is going on and weeps and tries to get away, but has strangely not cried out for help--it will take just one piercing scream to wake someone.

Upon realizing that Marcus is serious about taking the boy, Esca quickly goes to one knee, rather tenderly pushes dark hair back from the innocent, frightened face and says some soothing words in that mystic-sounding language.

The boy stops struggling and then Esca says more, something of an explanation with a nod to Marcus, and the child asks questions, looks from Esca to Marcus and back in pure astonishment.

Marcus can’t even begin to guess what Esca has said, but whatever it is, Esca sits there with that silent almost-amused expression and Marcus has the feeling that Esca is deliberately not looking up at him. He says more to the boy, this time with a smile and Marcus only understands the question mark at the end of it.

Frowning, the boy spends a long moment looking around the village and then he smiles and nods.

“Put him down, Marcus,” Esca says without looking up at him, “He won’t run.”

“What did you tell him?” Marcus asks.

“That we will take him with us, of course,” Esca says standing and guiding the boy with a strong hand on his shoulder over to the white horse. He gives the kid a boost into the saddle and Marcus knows that Esca said much more than that, but he feels too pressed for time to demand further explanations.

He mounts his horse--biting back a grimace of pain from his wounded leg (he’s only just now noticed it, and instantly hides it) and Esca climbs up in the saddle behind the boy. Marcus hears Esca say more to him, whatever it is with the bracing tone of a man preparing a child for what’s to come, encouraging strength in him.

Then they kick their horses into a gallop.

…  …  …

Hours later in the Seal People camp, the hound wakes and follows curious scent trails until she is sure her boy has been kidnapped! It’s nearly impossible at first to convey this message to the masters who are all in a fit of rage over that dumb hunk of metal and several dead bodies, but eventually they understand that they need to go _this_ way.

…  …  …

Marcus’ leg hurts, but he puts it out of his mind. The wind brings the sound of barking dogs to his ear and he looks back, “they’re on our heels!”

Esca reins his horse in and looks back as well, listens, “No, they are a day away. The wind always lies.”

“A day?” If that is true they need not push themselves so hard and he can maybe see to his leg, because it hurts enough to put spots in his vision. “They’ll never catch us on foot.”

Esca harrumphs, “Have you seen them run?”

The boy startles and twists in the saddle to look wide-eyed back at the horizon in such a sudden way that Marcus is sure that he, too, hears barking, though Marcus hasn’t heard anything this time. _The wind always lies_.

The boy looks up at Esca and asks a question and the man pats his leg, makes a short reply.

They urge their horses on and Marcus can’t help but think that--though he knows he and the boy heard howling so logically the dogs must be much closer than whole a day behind--Esca is _right_ about the wind.

Because somehow Marcus knows that these wild, ruthless people have knowledge in magic, ways to send messages ahead of themselves on the wind.

The message now being, _we are coming for you_.

…  …  …

The boy is crying, exhausted and frightened, but they will not stop. That is, not until Esca notices that Marcus is half out of his saddle and in a cold sweat. He stops his horse immediately and dismounts, stopping Marcus’ beast and declaring harshly, “You’re wounded!”

“I can keep going,” Marcus promises.

Esca won’t hear of it, forces him to rest. The boy watches, bleary eyed, as Esca examines the wound and then bandages it so tightly that Marcus hisses and curses him. Esca claps him in the side of the head, a firm but brief grip on the back of his neck, wide pad of his thumb giving a vividly tender caress on Marcus’ ear, and then lets him go.

Something about it reminds Marcus of Esca’s fingers on his ankles, of Esca’s dark eyes in the firelight.

To the third member of their party Esca gives what must have been an order to sleep because the boy curls up against the same rock Marcus sits on and closes his eyes. Esca, meanwhile, deals with the horses.

With the thought that if they are dead then he can never see the orange glow of fire play on Esca’s skin, Marcus stands and cries, “We have to keep going!”

“Let him have an hour of rest,” Esca insists, “It wouldn’t do you harm either.” He looks north as he says this. Marcus can tell that he is worried, that he would rather not have to stop for cripples and babies.

“Let’s keep going!” Marcus stands and resolutely takes the bridle of his horse from his friend.

“He’s exhausted!” Esca declares, motioning to the boy. “He can’t sleep in the saddle; he’s almost as big as I am; I won’t be able to keep him from falling off!”

The very first time Marcus has ever heard Esca own up to his small stature brings a quirk into the corner of the Roman’s mouth, but the situation is too dire for a real moment of enjoyment. “Then he’ll ride with me.”

“You’re leg--“

“ _He’ll ride with me_ ,” Marcus declares with no room for negotiations. He limps over to the small sleeping form and nudges him with a foot, “Kid,” he says.

“His name is Ael,” Esca snaps, exasperated by Marcus’ lack of warmth. He goes to a knee to shake the boy awake and inform him in native tongue that he’ll ride with Marcus for a while.

Looking miserable that he can’t sleep more than the few minutes he stole, Ael nods and allows Marcus to lift him up--the soldier needs the aid of Esca because his balance is off--and put him on the horse.

Then Marcus must rely almost entirely on Esca to get back in the saddle and then they are off once more, southward toward safety, which is still too far away for comfort.

…  …  ..

When Esca’s horse gives out, Marcus is startled from his feverish half-sleep and the boy cries out and leaps from the saddle to run to him. Upon seeing that Esca has come out of the tumble without harm, Marcus’ first thought is that Esca and he will share a mount--but no, Ael is already sharing with him.

Doom weighs heavy in the centurion’s gut. What can they do? The three of them certainly can’t share a horse. If only it was just Marcus and Esca they could continue.

The boy being thus a burden to them, Marcus wishes they hadn’t brought him.

He had thought, back there at the village, that he couldn’t have born the way Esca would look at him if he’d killed Ael like he had thought to do; the murder of a child that Esca did not know was apparently forgivable after sever punishment, but the murder of one he obviously cared about would be too much.

However, now, with the threat of their imminent deaths because they cannot out run their enemies, Marcus thinks he should have done it, killed Ael. Esca’s life--even if it’s a life lived far from and in loathing of Marcus--is worth more than some stranger savage child.

However, it doesn’t occur to Marcus to end the boy’s life now to solve their dilemma, no matter the inconvenience he has caused. It isn’t an option in the slightest, because Ael and Esca are kneeling in the coarse colorless grass by the crumpled beast, stroking her white coat and--Marcus can’t believe--yes, _singing_ lowly and somberly in that foreign tongue.

The sound of the song makes Marcus think of red leaves on the wind against a steel grey sky, fields of ragweed bending to kiss the damp earth at their feet, of souls galloping free on the wind.

The hairs stand up on Marcus’ forearms and his fever-addled brain thinks again of tribal magic.

The image of the two kneeling figures--father and son?--swims before his eyes and his vision narrows and he nearly falls from his horse. The jolt of catching himself makes his horse whinny indignantly—the beast has really put up with a lot on this journey and is quite sick of it all--and it draws Esca’s attention.

The Briton looks back, concern knitting his brow. Marcus tries and fails to pretend he’s fine. Focusing back on the lame horse, Esca pulls out his dagger, and, talking to the boy, hands it to him.

Marcus watches Ael try to refuse, but Esca insists and then gives words of encouragement. Several moments later, the boy finally finds the nerve to cut the horse’s throat and relieve her of her suffering. Esca thumps him on the back and stands, leaves him there to have a moment to himself as he goes to Marcus.

The soldier leans heavily forward in his weakness, but levels hard, concerned eyes on his friend. “What do we do?” he asks.

His mind has already turned to thoughts of making a stand with the Eagle, dying bravely…

“We keep going,” Esca says simply.

“The three of us cannot--“

“You and Ael will ride. I’ll run along-side you.”

A huff--has Esca lost his mind? “You can’t keep pace with a horse!”

“He’s a tired horse who’s carrying the weight of _your_ impressive muscle, plus him; I’ll keep pace fine.” Esca is stubbornly setting high faith in his endurance, but the set of his jaw means no arguing.

He orders Ael to get back on Marcus’ horse and judging by the questions from the boy and the curt answers from the Brigante, Esca has to repeat his reassurances. Marcus slouches forward, not moving except to keep his eyes on Esca. He’s small, but he’s without a doubt the strongest man Marcus has ever known--all legions of the Roman Army that Marcus has ever seen included.

With what they’ll need transferred out of the dead horse’s saddle bags, and the child and the invalid both mounted, Esca slaps the flank of Marcus’ horse and it jumps into a trot.

As the stallion trots over ragged terrain, the slight man on foot keeps pace, more or less, right beside him. Marcus can’t help but smile as he hears the Brigante speak of other native Britons, _Have you seen them run_?

Have you seen _us_ run?

…  …  …

Esca is right--the Seal People are completely capable of gaining on them despite their day’s advantage. Eventually, they are forced to take cover and hide in the river, simply stay quiet and hope the tribal warriors will double back in search for them.

The water is frigid, but it feels good to feverish Marcus. The current is strong, but Esca has his arm looped around him and his tunic curled in his fist. Esca is exhausted from his run, Marcus knows because his breathing is still harsh, his face flushed and his grip shaky. Ael is at Esca’s side, pale and shaking with fright more than the chill of the water or exhaustion.

When finally their pursuers have gone, they leave the horse--he’d been on his last legs anyway--and remain in the river to allow its current to carry them away. They crawl when it’s shallow and tumble down rapids and Marcus starts not to really feel it when his limbs bang on rocks, when his skin is scraped and gorged by sharp edges.

“It’s no use,” Marcus finally says. They’ve come to a part of the river where it’s incredibly shallow and have decided to get back on dry land but Marcus can’t find the strength to stand.

He tells Esca to go on without him, tries to give him the Eagle, but Esca refuses at every turn. Ael sits shivering in three inches of water, watching it all with a curious frown because he doesn’t understand their Latin and only follows a little based on the hand motions.

Esca stands strongly on his own two feet, looking down at a crumpled, broken Marcus. With rain water flattening and darkening his hair, sliding off his long nose and defined jaw, Esca demands fiercely, “If you want me to go then set me free.”

Marcus’ heart breaks as he remembers his Uncle’s words. _A man in slavery only does what he has to do._ All this time, Esca has still just been doing what his strange sense of honor has required he do for the man who saved his life.

It has not been friendship, or compassion or--love.

Knowing now that he will welcome the death that is close on his heels, Marcus pulls out the dagger and hands it over to the Briton with a command for him to leave.

“No,” Esca says, taking the dagger but kneeling. He takes Marcus’ face in his hands, a strong grip along his jaw and the back of his neck, “I will not leave you. I am your freedman. You have my undying loyalty, and by my honor I will fight for you now.”

“Esca,” Marcus is too tired to fight, but he cannot allow this. If he must die, if the Eagle must remain lost, then Esca _at least_ must live!

Esca’s strong arms scoop him up onto his feet and Marcus can’t help but to slump against the slighter man’s chest. He feels the vibrations of the alien words as Esca gives Ael a command.

Ael flat refuses, much like Esca had done. Esca insists, just as Marcus had. The boy starts crying, but Esca raises his voice and repeats himself, then tacks on some softer-voiced reassurances.

Marcus doesn’t know what he says, but it puts the steel of pride in the boy’s spine. Esca gives some short instructions and the boy makes a short reply before he grips Esca’s arm and says something very solemn, like a vow.

Then, amazingly quick like a deer--just like Esca running beside the horse--Ael sprints away through the water and up the hill, disappearing into the woods and the rain.

“You’re burning up,” Esca sighs in deep concern, pressing his hands all over Marcus’ face and neck, feeling the unbelievable heat of his skin under the chill of the rain.

He drags Marcus up onto dry land next to a fallen tree and sits with his back to it, positioning Marcus so that his legs are over Esca’s lap and the Roman can rest his head on the freedman’s shoulder.

Esca’s arms go around Marcus’ waist and it never occurs to Marcus that this is _not_ how Roman soldiers are supposed to meet their enemies in war. All he knows is that he can feel Esca breathing, he can _feel it._

“They’re coming,” Marcus says, the hot skin of his forehead pressing into the cooler skin of Esca’s neck. “They’re coming for us,” he says again, because he thinks he hears them telling him so--more magic messages, in the rain this time. “We’re dead.”

“Not yet,” Esca reassures, blinking rainwater from his eyes. “Ael will come back before they get here.”

“You’re free, Esca,” Marcus says, lifting his heavy head to look at his friend. “You should be with Ael.”

“I should be with you,” Esca says firmly, his dark eyes shifting to meet Marcus’ dead center. Feverishly oblivious to most of his predicament, Marcus can’t decide if he likes Esca’s skin best in firelight or when it is rain-washed like this.

In trying to focus on the rivulets of water streaming down the tendons where Esca’s shoulder meets his neck, Marcus’ vision narrows and his world rocks dangerously.

“Sleep,” Esca commands with a firm hand pushing Marcus’ head back down. “You need rest, _m’anam-charaid_. Just rest.”

Marcus is slipping from consciousness, so he doesn’t have the strength to demand a translation for what he’s just been called. The last thing he is aware of is Esca’s fingers dragging through the sodden hair at the back of his neck in slow, soothing strokes.

…  …  …

The rain has stopped when Marcus wakes. He is stretched out comfortably on the damp ground, his clothes dried by the sun. He thinks he can remember Esca holding him, but that must have been a dream. It feels like one, far away, hazy and impossible.

When he moves so does Esca, who stands from the seat he has made of the fallen tree and scoops up several strips of cloth he has turned his shirt into. His torso is bare, pleasing lines under taut skin and blue-black tattoos on display.

“You’ve bled through the old bandages.”

Marcus sits still and allows Esca to tie the new strips of cloth over the old in several tight layers. When he is done, he touches Marcus’ forehead, face, and neck, “You’re fever has broken. Good.”

“I feel much better,” Marcus admits. “How long have I been asleep?”

“You slept through the night and all of morning.”

With a start, Marcus looks around, “They haven’t found us yet?”

“I told you they doubled back,” Esca says, not hiding the pleased _I told you so_ tone. He grows serious again and admits, “Though by now, they are on their way here once more.”

Marcus looks in the direction Ael had gone, “Where did Ael go?”

“To find us fresh horses,” Esca says and he offers his hand for Marcus to get up. “Can you make it over to water?  You need to drink.”

Marcus is delighted to find that he can stand on his own, no dizziness--a limp, but not a crippling one. “Will he make it back in time?” Marcus asks as he drinks.

He sees it on Esca’s face that it is doubtful. Marcus straightens and puts steel in his spine and says, “We’ll make a stand.”

“You’re leg--“

A single look from Marcus silences Esca’s protest. The shorter man cuts himself off, a muscle in his jaw jumping, dark eyes holding Marcus’ muddled green. Then he nods and helps Marcus find and prepare a staff for the Eagle to be mounted on. The Roman then rams it into the ground and steps back to look at it.

“All this way…” he murmurs, not finishing the thought out loud, _for nothing._

Esca’s voice is soft and kind, lilting with his Briton accent as he grips Marcus’ elbow, “You have done your father proud.”

Marcus looks down, _I’ve failed him_. He doesn’t say it aloud, nor does he voice the vow that he will not shame himself as his father did by running away. He will die with the Eagle in his hands.

Sounds draw their attention and they turn, side by side, to face the mist where a group is approaching.

Marcus draws his sword and looks to Esca: short, strong, stunning. Esca draws his own blade and looks to Marcus as well, a smile of encouragement and loyalty. Marcus nods. He wishes he could have shared a bed with him, just once, but this is only a small wish in the face of a world of gratitude for the friendship he did experience with him.

Esca’s companionship has been the most precious thing in Marcus’ life with the exception of the carved eagle hanging from his neck and his last memories of his father, and he is happy to meet his gods with at least that to thank them for.

But then--Marcus can’t believe it--it’s not the Seal People in the mist. It’s--Marcus looks to Esca for confirmation that he isn’t hallucinating from a sudden return of his fever. Esca looks just as surprised.

It is Guern and the other deserters of the Ninth Legion, dressed for battle and led by a small, proud, Ael.

Esca jabbers at him with lots of question marks and the boy jabbers back and Guern, meanwhile, says to Marcus, “The boy happened to come to my village for your horses. Unfortunately, our horses are old and could never help you out run the Seal People, but I heard out his tale and convinced him to show us the way back to you.”

All Marcus can do is stand and stare at the old haggard faces, the out of style and mostly neglected Roman armor they wore.

“Marcus, I lied to you,” Guern continued, “I saw you’re father fight and die bravely for the Eagle. He was the last Roman to hold it and he died a truly heroic death, a death I was too much of a coward to face for myself. I ran. We all ran. We’ve been hiding from that, from our shame. But today we will help you defend The Eagle, to regain our honor.”

Marcus accepts the help even as his heart sings to his gods a song mixed of praise, thanks, and more prayers for further help. When the Seal People arrive, Ael takes cover in the trees and adrenaline helps Marcus forget the ache in his leg and focus on the fight.

Marcus has fought many battles, but never one which began with him already feeling so exhausted. And never one which held so much at stake. Everything, absolutely everything Marcus holds dear--the Eagle. _Esca_ \--will be destroyed if he fails. He cannot fail. He will not. Exhausted or not, he fights more fiercely than ever before.

In the end, most of the old legionaries of the Ninth do not survive, but Marcus and Esca are still breathing and are not horribly maimed. Ael climbs down out of the trees. Shaken and avoiding Marcus’ eye, the boy stays well away from him as he helps round up the bodies and build the pyre for Guern.

“What’s wrong?” Marcus asks Esca with a motion to the boy.

“You frightened him,” Esca sighs as he breaks up sticks to tuck into Guern’s clothes. “He just watched you brutally drown his father.”

“Gods,” Marcus balks, loses his breath. He had forgotten that the boy was near as he battled the Seal prince--a good thing, too, else Marcus would have gotten himself killed. But shame comes over him now and he finds he can hardly look at the boy. “Should I say something to him?” he asks Esca uncertainly.

“Nothing to be said,” Esca says with a shrug. “Ael is Seal People, he understands war.”

“But his _father_ \--“

“I’m his father now,” Esca cuts in, turning from the funeral pyre, his dark eyes on Marcus only briefly before sliding over to the pile of branches that Ael brings from the tree line. He goes to over and scoops up a handful, breaking off the smaller twigs, “That was decided when I asked him to come home with us.”

All Marcus can think to say is, “Oh.”

He’d taken Ael only because killing him wasn’t an option and leaving him was too risky. He hadn’t actually considered bringing the boy all the way south, over the wall and into Rome, _raising him_. Frankly this was because Marcus hadn’t allowed himself to plan on ever seeing Hadrian’s Wall (let alone the other side of it) ever again.

With his sticks all straight in a bundle in his hand, Esca breaks the bunch of them over his knee as he calls something out to Ael, who is concealed in the trees, nothing but a smiling voice, as he calls something back with a laugh. With a broad smile over whatever has been said, Esca goes back to the pyre and adds the sticks to Guern’s body.

The whole thing leaves Marcus standing speechless and dumb in the sunlight, in the middle of bodies that have died for him and his causes. He has never considered Esca as a father before. However, Esca is taking to it with a natural ease that suggests he has always planned to be one and that makes Marcus feel stupid.

What could he have been thinking? Of course Esca has plans for a family. What man did not? After war and bloodshed, the desire to settle into a peaceful life with small children to bring laughter is natural. Expected. Required. Marcus has always had a similar plan—only it has taken this moment for him to realize that such goals require active work. The days of passing time in idle pleasure with friends are over. Like Esca, he must make the family he yearns for.

To lighten the mood, Marcus harrumphs with a friendly smile, “You’re too young to be his father.”

This Esca agrees with a mirroring smile and a bump of his shoulder that says _Yes, I’m young, but it doesn’t change anything; I am his father now_.

Marcus selects the biggest among the sticks and takes some cloth from a fallen man’s cloak, some laces from another man’s jerkin. He digs the oils from the saddle bags they’d tied around his waist when they’d left behind the horse and begina making the torch they will use to ceremoniously light the pyre come night fall. He jokes, “And you’re not big enough to rear a boy of that size. By the time he’s twelve, he’ll knock you about in order to get his way.”

Esca’s response to this is to laugh and make a rude comment about where Marcus can put his teasing statement. Marcus laughs as well and, though he has been discouraged from the notion of knowing more of Esca in lieu of his serious search for a wife and children, he finds himself happy with the notion that at least he still has his friend, and that their children might one day be friends as well.

…  …  …

Once the pyre is lit and Marcus says some words, they leave the area fast. The fire will draw unwanted attention, but they have done it anyway because Marcus insists that the Romans be given a proper Roman ceremony.

Without horses, they go on foot. His leg means he can never keep pace if they run, so they simply walk but without mercy. Marcus has wrapped the eagle back up and carries it over one shoulder, uses the pole for a stick like an old man as they cover a lot of ground, uphill and down, over rock and across stream. Marcus bears as much as he can and they manage to get a safe distance away from the battle field before he must stop and rest the injury.

Ael hunts and Esca makes the fire and as they eat and rest, Marcus listens to a conversation he doesn’t understand a word of. Even without a clue as to the subject of talk, it is clear that Esca is greatly enjoying himself, and Marcus knows why. It must be overwhelming, humbling even, to find oneself a father to a thinking, clever little person. It must feel rather like skipping to the best part and Marcus feels envious of his friend for avoiding the tedious tasks that he himself has ahead.

Once they are returned to Rome, Marcus will have to make an effort to meet women. (His grueling existence as a soldier striving so hard for perfection hasn’t granted many female acquaintances.) Then he will have to choose one, and woo her--how did one even go about doing that, anyway?--and marry her. Marcus has never been with a woman. He has always focused instead on regaining his family’s honor. He always knew there would eventually come a day to meet that challenge head on.

In all honesty, the notion that such a day has come does not sit well with Marcus. He sighs, seeing his future. He’ll find a nice girl and somehow she’ll make him feel like how firelight on Esca’s skin makes him feel, and together they’ll build a home and settle in, and then, gods willing, there will finally be a child to run about it and ease Marcus’ heavy heart.

Thought of a son to pass his hard-earned wisdom to almost makes the daunting tasks ahead of him feel worthwhile. But so much has to happen before a child will come. That happiness is so far off… Meanwhile, Esca immediately gets a son to amuse and teach on his own. No woman required.

Marcus does not sleep well that night.

When they’ve rested enough and started on their way again, they head for a village where they find horses. After that, the easy-paced journey is infinitely easier for the crippled Roman.

All the while, Ael chatters to Esca in Gaelic and Esca makes his smooth replies with laughter more often than not and only occasionally does the freedman return to Latin to include Marcus. When he does, it is always either a comment about his leg, the weather, the horses, camp, or other such business related things.

Marcus feels left out all the way back to the wall.

…  …  …

Calleva is more beautiful than Marcus remembers: the cool sparkling rivers, the spring green trees, the strong Roman architecture of the villa, the layout of the gardens, the gentle rolling horse pastures; it all brings a sense of ease and security which Marcus has been sorely without. After four months in the wilds of northern Britain, Marcus is actually relieved to be back in a place where he once felt he was wasting away, useless.

Uncle Aquila can’t express his happiness to find his nephew alive and well; the bearer of the lost Eagle. All he does is throw his arms around Marcus and give him a squeeze. His eyes are damp and his laugh more like a giggle, voice thick with happiness as he welcomes Marcus home.

He’s happy to see Esca too, for Uncle Aquila loves all members of his house, even the slaves. He frowns at Ael, though. “What is that?”

“Ael,” Marcus motions him over and he comes with Esca right behind him for support. Marcus says, “We rescued him from a cruel father among the Seal People.”

“He’s my charge,” Esca speaks up and this gives Uncle Aquila a start and the old man asks, dumbfounded, “a slave with a charge? How will you _pay_ for his upkeep?”

“He isn’t a slave, Uncle,” Marcus is quick to explain because in all of the fuss over their home coming and the restoration of the Eagle, Marcus has forgotten to make this point clear. “I freed him north of Hadrian’s Wall just before we won the eagle. What he does now is his business, and he has made the boy his son.”

Uncle waves a hand, indifferent to Esca’s freedom now that he’s learned the facts. “Well then,” he says, “Where will you go, Esca?”

Esca looks calmly back at Uncle Aquila and then looks to Marcus as he says, “I will stay with Marcus. I am sworn to him as his freedman.”

“Oh, I see,” Uncle Aquila says in a knowing tone; Uncle himself had freed Stephanos decades ago when he was still an active soldier yet the man refuses to go. His old blue eyes move from Esca to rest on Ael, study him like he’s a less than fascinating bug on his bread knife.

He brings his shoulders up, his hands together as he looks at his nephew, his nephew’s man and the savage child between them with the expression of one taking something he does not want with the polite manners of the civilized, “Well, won’t we all be happy together?”

…  ….  ….

With plenty of rest and the care of his Uncle’s physicians, Marcus’ leg heals rapidly and without further pain than the usual dull ache from his first injury. For the first several weeks after his return, Marcus is distracted by a constant flow of visitors, men and their families who are eager to feast with the man who brought back the Eagle and restored the Ninth Legion. Plenty of young women appear too, but Marcus does not even know where to _begin_ speaking to them. He cannot even boast of his greatness, for the miraculous feat was not his doing alone.

Esca should get half the glory, yet the Briton avoids these visitors and brushes it off any time Marcus attempts to push some of the credit onto him. In fact, beyond breakfast and dinner, Marcus sees little of his friend. This is because during Marcus’ days of recovery, Esca spent all of his time out and about in the extensive grounds of the estate with Ael. Now, after Marcus is no longer required to rest his leg, he still sees little of Esca because he and Ael ride off into the woods and are gone for hours on end.

Marcus asks Esca over dinner what it is they do out there. Esca only grins mysteriously and says, “I have much still to teach him.”

Uncle’s comment to this is, “Isn’t that the truth. I saw him rolling in a mud puddle yesterday.”

“His tribe is the Painted People for a reason,” Esca laughs and Uncle laughs as well.

Marcus frowns over at Ael and asks him, “Do you like it here?”

The boy does not look up from his food and Marcus raps the table to draw his attention, repeats his question. Ael looks at him blankly then asks Esca for a translation, which Esca gives and then Ael’s answer is long. Esca shortens it however, with a smile and a laugh, “Yes, he likes your dogs, Lucius.”

“Ha!” Uncle harrumphs in amusement.

“Can he read?” Marcus asks.

“No,” Esca says. “Not yet.”

Ael apparently finishes his food because he stands and leaves the table without a word to anyone. Marcus objects, calling him back, but Ael jabbers something and runs outside to play.

Marcus looks to Esca and Esca is amused rather than apologetic.

“He’s hopeless,” Marcus grunts.

“His table manners do want improving,” Uncle Aquila agrees with a sigh.

“He’s still settling in,” Esca defends, “He’ll catch on to how things are done quickly enough.”

“Until then?” Marcus’s voice is sharp.

“What?” Esca asks mildly. Marcus holds his eye, letting his frustration for being ignored recently fuel the venom in the question,

“We’re to tolerate the child doing as he pleases without even being able to understand the reprimand he receives?”

Esca blinks at him and then excuses himself kindly from Uncle, goes outside with the boy.

“It seems you do not have affection for the child you dragged out of the north,” Uncle points out with obvious interest.

Ignoring that the whole thing had been his idea in the first place, Marcus replies, “Esca brought him, not me.”

“Well regardless of that, he is here now and a member of this house; you will show due respect.”

“He’s a savage,” Marcus grunts.

“All children are savages, Nephew,” Uncle Aquila advises. “But with guidance that boy could grow up to be a Roman.”

….  ….  ….

Even after a month, Marcus notes that Esca only ever speaks to Ael in Gaelic, not a word of Latin between the father and son, and he does not like it.

“Why do you not teach him Latin?” Marcus asks one evening, when, for some reason, Esca has not taken Ael out into the woods for the mysterious Brigante father-son traditions he had been holding to. Instead the three of them sit out in the garden.

His fame at having restored the Eagle finally beginning to peter out, Marcus has the majority of his days to himself again. Ael has rounded up all the dogs of the estate and plays with them out in the expanse of grass under the trimmed trees.

“He does not wish to learn it,” Esca says with a shrug, eyes looking out at the dogs and the boy.

“He is in Rome!” Marcus cries. “Surely you realize he will _have_ to learn it eventually?”

“He is in Britannia,” Esca says, “Rome is far from here.”

This answer does not sit well with Marcus. At all.

It suggests that in Esca’s mind, Rome will not occupy this territory forever, or even for the rest of Ael’s life. Despite the loyalty and friendship Esca has shown him--a Roman soldier--Esca still despises the empire which Marcus loves so dearly.

He remembers his friend sitting across from the fire, lit so beautifully in the dancing light and shadows (--no he will not think of that!) as he told of how the Romans came and took everything. Esca had made it so clear that night that this is the land of his people and has never belonged to Rome.

With that memory comes other memories of how well Esca had gotten on with the Seal People, how comfortably he had lived in those wild lands.

“Why did you not stay in the north if you hate us so?” Marcus demands unable to keep the acid from his voice.

“I do not hate all of you,” Esca says in his softly confident way. “I love it here,” he lifts his arms to indicate Calleva, “and I will happily follow all things Aquila until I die.”

Marcus harrumphs, “Aquila is a Roman family. To be part of it, you must be Roman yourself,” and with that, Marcus stands and goes inside before he can see the look of hurt on Esca’s face and do something as foolish as take it all back.

Brigantes or Roman, a choice has to be made because a man cannot be both…

Right?

….  ….  ….

“Nephew, is everything alright?” Uncle is his usual serene self. He has stumbled upon Marcus leaning heavily with his forehead against the wall.

“Yes,” Marcus lies, righting himself but Uncle makes motions for Marcus to come and sit with him by the fire.

“You cannot lie to me, Nephew. You’ve inherited that from my brother. Now,” he settles into his chair and laces his fingers over his navel, leaning back and watching Marcus intently, “Why don’t you be honest with yourself and me at the same time?”

The night through the windows is cool, but the little fire in the hearth is warm and Marcus appreciates it on his toes. He sighs and stretches out, massages his left knee so that he can fully extend it.

“It is Esca and Ael.”

“Hmmm,” Uncle says with understanding.

“I just… I feel Esca has drifted from me. He cares about Ael more than me.”

Uncle is amused, “A father ought to place his son above all others, should he not?”

Marcus blushes and is quick to recover, though he hardly has a recovery at hand, “I just mean… that… well… I’m--“

“Let me take a guess,” Uncle cuts in with an unusually kind and quiet tone, “You had plans to have Esca quite to yourself in your retirement?”

Marcus blushes even hotter and considers leaving, going to bed, picking a bride tomorrow, and denying everything if ever Uncle brings it up again. Instead, he looks at the fire, swallows loudly, and nods.

When a moment has passed in excruciating silence, Marcus looks to his uncle and asks, “How did you know?”

“You’re father and I had a little brother with the same preferences,” Uncle says. “He, like you, myself and your father and all of your grandfather’s seven sons, was a soldier. He learned, as we all do, to take what we need from our fellow soldiers.”

Marcus, of course, has taken such opportunities during his campaigning years and has always known most soldiers do it, but he has not yet connected his old centurion Uncle with that fact. Now that the connection has been made _for_ him, he really thinks he’ll go now.

Uncle tells stories no one wants to hear on the best of days, so Marcus is quite sure he is going to start in on the memories of all the oral ministrations and hand jobs he received in his Legion, but to the young soldier’s relief he doesn’t. Marcus is able to stay in place as Uncle keeps going,

“But even at home with beautiful women batting their lashes at him, Maxentius only took pleasure in men. More than that, he bedded them with the romance and tenderness of bedding women. He had a way about him, almost imperceptible, but I see it in you; you remind me of him greatly. Most especially when your freedman is near you.”

Marcus can crawl in the fire to seek relief from the heat across his neck now.

“It is nothing to be ashamed of, Marcus,” Uncle says with a chuckle. “It just means you have a big heart, too big to keep seeking what thrills you most with the detachment expected of you.”

“That sounds too much like a weakness,” Marcus breathes unsteadily in his embarrassment and Uncle sits forward, expression hardened with seriousness.

“A heart filled with love is anything but weakness, Nephew. If you believe in nothing else, believe in that.”

Marcus meets Uncle’s eye and nods and Uncle looks over toward the door and then smiles, stands up, “Well, if you will excuse me, I will be getting to bed. My old bones won’t rise early enough for the trip into town if I don’t turn in now. Goodnight, Nephew. Goodnight, Esca,” Uncle says as he leaves the room.

Marcus whirls around in his seat, a twinge going through his bad knee that he ignores as he stumbles over a greeting to Esca and barely manages to swallow the words before he asks in a panic _how long have you been standing there_?

Esca moves further into the room and sighs in contentment as he sinks into the seat Uncle has just left. His ease suggests he’s forgotten Marcus’ earlier words that suggest he is not part of the family and Marcus is glad of it. He works his tongue until his mouth isn’t dry anymore and asks as casually as he can, “Where’s Ael?”

“In bed,” Esca says and Marcus nods and silence falls. Not wanting to sit idle with Esca’s eyes on him, Marcus decides he’ll make his polite departure as Uncle has done and go to bed. As a way to work up to it, he removes his sandals, feigning weariness.

Unfortunately, he only manages one sandal because upon bending his knee to reach the left, his old wound gives such a protest that he grimaces and grunts in pain, grabbing it to massage the pain away.

Next thing he knows, Esca is kneeling in front of him, removing the sandal as he had when he was a slave. “No, Esca!” Marcus cries, pulling his foot out of Esca’s hands and laughing, “You aren’t a slave anymore. I can manage on my own.”

“I know I am not and no you cannot,” Esca says, capturing the foot once more, nimble fingers going back to the laces. “I do this as a friend.”

Esca’s fingers linger like they used to but this time he takes even longer than he ever had removing a single sandal. Marcus holds his breath, hoping but terrified that Esca overheard everything Uncle had said.

The firelight on Esca’s skin makes the edges of his hair glow. His soft tones and his kneeling position sends Marcus’ mind to places that make tension and heat pool low in his gut.

“You are a good friend, Esca,” he says. Then he asks before he can help it, “Did I offend you earlier?”

“Not as much as I offended you, apparently,” Esca replies, concern in his brow. “Does it bother you so much, when I speak in Gaelic?”

“No,” Marcus breathes instantly because the truth is, he loves the language and the way it shapes Esca’s mouth, sits on his tongue and reminds Marcus of things bigger even than Rome. He clears his throat, says more strongly, “No, it is the language of your fathers, I cannot begrudge you that.”

Esca smiles and removes the sandal, but he does not return to his chair. Instead, he starts massaging the horribly scared knee before him. “You must have overdone yourself today, if it hurts this badly.”

Marcus waves a hand, “Please don’t say that. I took a hike to the little waterfalls--if that’s over doing it then I am truly invalided and will grow bitter very quickly. It’s when the night grows suddenly chill with the coming rain that makes it ache, I think.”

Esca grins rather impishly up at him, something Marcus has not seen before, “You’re an old man who feels the weather in his bones.”

Marcus laughs. Thirty two years probably _is_ old to Esca’s twenty three. The Briton’s fingers knead the flesh of Marcus’ knee in silence for only a moment or two longer before the freedman looks up at Marcus and asks plainly, “When I was your slave, why did you never take me to bed?”

Spittle is in with the sudden intake of breath that Marcus takes and it strangles him a little. He coughs once and clears his throat and asks, “What?”

“When I was sixteen, Rome took my land, killed my family and made me a slave. First I belonged to Vitus Cellus. He had me work his fields by day and whenever the mood struck him put me on my knees to work his cock with my mouth at night.”

The way Marcus’ own cock jumps at this is enough to cause him shame for he should not be thrilled by stories of Esca on his knees against his will. But he is too primed after months of no release and so simply Esca on his knees is enough.

He clears his throat, unable to hold eye contact with Esca but the young man keeps going, “By the time I was eighteen, he sold me to Tullius Martina, the Roman commander. I was a gift for his wife, Cornelia. For three years my sole purpose was to please her.”

“Esca--“ Marcus starts, but Esca keeps going,

“She sold me to Blandius Balbina, who intended me to care for his horses but he used me brutally for one night and then lost me in a bet the following hour to his twin brother Aurelianus Balbina, who intended to do the same--but when I tried to kill him and showed my skill with a blade, he put me in the ring with his gladiators.”

At this, Marcus’ eye finds his again. Esca’s palms are flattened and warmed against Marcus’ thighs through the fabric of his tunic as Esca says, “I refused to be part of that game and you know my story from there.”

“Esca--“

“You are the first Roman I’ve ever met that does not take slaves whenever the urge comes to you. Even your Uncle takes his slave girls to bed.”

“I would never--“

“I know,” Esca cuts in, so soft. “But soon enough I wanted you to.”

“Why?” Marcus huffs in disbelief, blood spiked and heart slowing in shock.

“You were kind to me and we became friends,” Esca answers, “You are handsome and strong, with the best smile I think I’ve ever seen… But you have never shown interest. Why?”

 “You were my slave,” Marcus admits, “How could I expect you to consent after you said you despised me and everything I stand for?”

Esca sighs, shaking his head, “When I said that, I did not know the Rome you serve is not the Rome you stand for,” Esca rises and slides his hands up Marcus’ thighs as he brings his face closer to Marcus’, “Your Rome is a beautiful place of honor and heroes, Marcus.”

“My Rome doesn’t exist,” Marcus confesses, for the first time ever to himself, let alone out loud.

“Perhaps not outside of you,”

“Esca,” Marcus breathes because he’s never been this close to the object of his most powerful fantasies and the firelight has cast Esca’s whole face in shadow by now but his hands are close to Marcus’ already hard and throbbing cock.

“I am a freedman now, Marcus, and I should very much like to live in your Rome with you, letting you bed me with the romance and tenderness of bedding a woman,” he grins playfully.

Marcus closes his eyes and groans, “Gods, you did hear us!”

Esca laughs warmly, “I did.”

Marcus wants to die but Esca takes his hands, still chuckling, “Be glad I did. I have had myself convinced you are looking for a wife, so I would never have said anything tonight if I hadn’t been encouraged by what I heard.”

“I’ve never truly wanted a wife,” Marcus reassures.

“Good,” Esca chuckles, “Because it would be far too easy for you to get one if you did.”

“Discharged and crippled, that’s doubtful,” Marcus snorts.

“A good man with a good heart, and the honor of bringing back the Eagle, it’s not doubtful at all, _m’anam-charaid_.”

Marcus frowns, “What’s that mean?”

Esca stands and pulls Marcus up, grinning, and goes to his toes to kiss him simple and sweetly, but it leaves Marcus without any blood in his brain. “One day you’ll know,” Esca turns to go, but Marcus holds him against him.

“No, I’ll know now, Esca.”

The shorter man actually looks a little embarrassed and his eyes are on Marcus’ chest when he explains, “It is what my parents called each other for thirty years. What my eldest brother and his wife called each other for a year and half….” Esca’s eyes rise to meet Marcus’, “My soul and yours know each other very well, Marcus. That’s what it means.”

“Oh,” is all Marcus can say and it makes Esca laugh and hide his face in Marcus’ chest for a moment. When he lifts it again, he’s still smiling, “It is typical that I would find myself attached to someone who has to have that explained because he only speaks _Latin_ and not even very well at that.”

“Hey,” Marcus warns teasingly, squeezing Esca, who makes a soft apology, his arms going up over Marcus’ shoulders so his fingers twirl in his hair. Marcus’ hands are on Esca’s narrow hips and he wants very much to take him to bed this instant, but this is so nice, holding Esca in the firelight, Esca’s fingers twining around locks of his hair as their body press close.

Esca laughs, a hand slipping down to cup Marcus through his braccae and feel his embarrassing level of hardness, “Shall we go to bed now, _m’anam_?”

“Gods, yes,” Marcus groans and they hurry to his room hand in hand.

The rain has started outside, slating on the shutters of his room window as Marcus picks Esca up and Esca wraps his legs around him and kisses him deeply. With a playful nip at his lips, Marcus grins and tosses Esca onto the furs of his bed and commences to getting out of his clothes

Esca watches him undress so that he is bare as the day he was born before making the first move to do the same. Marcus helps him strip until he’s equally as naked and then joins him on the furs. Esca’ smile is by far the most encouraging, _fun_ smile he’s ever seen and as for his body, well, Marcus is shaking a little because it’s better than he could have imagined.

He knew Esca would be thin, lean with hard muscle, but he didn’t expect more tattoos on his sparsely haired thighs or freckles on his hips or the gorgeous dark spot of a mole low on his hip. Bending, he kisses that spot, nips at it, dips his tongue into the shallow navel and feels better about his own shaking when he feels Esca’s taut stomach muscles shiver under his lips as his slender cock grows hard against Marcus’ chest.

“Marcus,” Esca breathes, already quite out of his senses it would seem, because the rest is lost on the man who only speaks Latin, but Marcus understands the command and obeys.

…………..

The night is a first for Marcus, who has only known pleasure to be quickly and efficiently swapped between like-minded soldiers. If any of those past experiences did happen in a bed--rare--they were not like this. They were not whole bodies and hungry mouths. They were not every touch crying to the gods, hearts ringing, _yes, yes, Mithras, I see now how you have blessed me_.

Marcus feels himself transformed by the slow building tangle of their hot bodies, in the close heat of furs, their sweat and whispers, their shared trembles and his burning eyes. Something unfurls, something lifts up out of his bones. The sky sinks under his skin. Esca’s soft cry for more resurrects carefree joy which tingles across Marcus’ skin.

Breathless and trying desperately to remain quiet, Esca murmurs and whimpers against his ear, thighs shaking as he breaks, “Marcus, oh, _m’anam charaid_ , _m’anam, m’anam, oh_!” and Marcus remembers Esca explaining what that means, and he feels himself coming apart, feels his soul cracking open to bleed out in answer, _yes, yes, I know you, too. I know you, too._

……………….

With Esca’s full attention at night, Esca’s body heat beside him through peaceful sleep, waking each morning to the sight of cowlicks and prickly chin hairs, bleary eyes and smirking, kissable lips, Marcus can no longer be too exceedingly jealous over the time that Esca spends during the day with Ael. The two of them continue to speak in Gaelic and disappear into the woods for hours on end, but within a few months, Esca begins to occasionally address his son in short Latin sentences. “Hand me that,” or “don’t run” or “finish your food.”

It does not miss on Marcus the first time this happens, and he gives his lover a little smile of gratitude, but otherwise says nothing of it. He has begrudgingly but fully relinquished the idea that he would one day have his own children. Giving up on that long term goal feels a lot like dropping a heavy bolder off his shoulders. Relief at last. Free to just… _be_.

And he only wants to be with Esca.

Esca fills him up with just a smile, consumes him with a kiss, and drowns him in abundant feelings of contentment just by sitting next to him and speaking of the boring day’s events, planning another boring day. Simply life forged on through the eventless stretches, seeking adventure in any small way it shall come, namely in the growing depth of love.

Being so in love with the father, Marcus understands that he must make an effort with the son, even if the kid often looks right through him and Uncle and anyone else of Roman heritage; even if Ael more often than not smells of dog, and if he does not smell of dog it is because he is covered in some new and revolting mixture of mud.

The worst of it is when Marcus is left, even if for a matter of minutes, alone with him. Ael stays out of arm’s reach and never meets his eye. Marcus realizes that he frightens the boy, and that violently drowning the kid’s father right before his eyes could have no other effect on a boy of not even ten. But in all honesty, the child frightens Marcus more.

How must Marcus act with him? While he was jealous of Esca’s free pass into fatherhood beyond the wall, Marcus has never actively considered such a jump for himself. The entire notion of adoptive children leaves Marcus sick with uncertainty, for he has been counting on the loyalty and devotion born of _blood-ties_ to bond with his children. Without that, he knows not where to start. And Ael is so different than he. Always humming those chilling notes of music, always painted in mud, always speaking to animals as if the beasts can understand him, be it a trained dog, a grazing horse, or a bird that has dared to hop onto his finger.

He and Marcus have nothing to speak to one another about. The boy, though strong, has no aptitude or interest in fighting; that much is clear. And Marcus cares very little for the pagan rituals of natives. Esca often speaks of his talents in healing, which has left the general impression in the house that Ael might one day be a surgeon. “But that would require one day for him to have human patients rather than horses, dogs, and birds,” Uncles scoffs, hoping to share a laugh with Marcus over the matter, but this time Marcus does not laugh, for he has seen one wounded cat’s progress and is impressed. It seems Esca has a clever son, indeed, if only a savage one.

With little choice, Marcus leaves well enough alone. He loves Esca more fiercely every day, and he offers kindness and respect--but most of all distance—to Ael, and appreciates the boy returning the same.

Regardless of their efforts, however, there is often little choice but to spend time with one another. Like while on the two day ride into town when they’ve stopped to make camp and Esca has gone for more firewood, leaving Marcus and Ael together by the fire to eat in awkward silence.

Or like when they’ve made it to town and Esca slips away for a moment to gods-know-where and Marcus is left to make sure that Ael does not wander off. The pair of them stand as tense as cornered rabbits, and Marcus has _no clue_ what to do or say to ease the boy’s fear. He tries to smile, but it feels strange to smile at someone who does not smile back, so the expression never lasts on Marcus’ face.

But then one summer day, after Marcus has been told that Ael had a birthday and is now proudly nine years old, they’re in the market and Ael’s attention is unsurprisingly won by a bitch nursing a new litter of pups. The boy is on his knees and playing with the little scamps before his father or Marcus even realize that the table where they stand trading for furs is housing the new family.

Esca does not notice right away, takes his new fur with gratitude from the vendor and moves on. Marcus goes to a knee beside Ael, “You like dogs.”

Ael nods.

“You understand me, then?”

Ael looks at him without a word, so Marcus has no idea if Ael does in fact understand or if it was just a stupid question. The boy picks up a dog, checks its sex, puts it down, picks up another, grunts and says the first Latin word Marcus has ever heard from him, “Sire.” It’s a male dog. He sets it in his lap, and examines it nose to tail, its paws. “He’ll hunt, too.” He is nodding.

Marcus is over joyed that the boy is learning Latin--more specifically that Esca is teaching him as a display of love and loyalty—and picks up another puppy. “You can bring one home if you want.”

By now Esca has realized that he has been pushing through the crowds alone and has doubled back. “Marcus, Gods, what are you two up to?”

“Puppies!” Marcus laughs, lifting one and kissing its rather sweet face. Esca sighs with total understanding, eyes glimmering and set on Marcus is an almost-unreadable expression of fondness. “There are seven already at home for him to play with.”

“Those are Uncle’s dogs,” Marcus says. “I was thinking Ael should have one of his very own. Raise it from a puppy. He’ll have it for years and years.”

“ _Please_ , can I father?” Ael asks suddenly, ardently, and in perfect Latin. The effect is ruined when he immediately launches into rapid Gaelic. Esca laughs and holds a hand to staunch the apparent reasoning in favor of the idea.

What transpires appears to be a test. Esca does not say yes to the puppy until Ael asks for it in full Latin sentences. The frustrated boy stumbles over big words, but Esca patiently corrects him each time with Gaelic explanations attached to the corrected Latin.

Marcus is transfixed by Esca’s mouth as he teaches. The way both languages twist together so fluidly on his tongue reminds Marcus of how their bodies fit together between the furs at night, both strong but flexible and bending to one another.

When it is agreed that Ael will have one as reward for the use of his begrudging second language, the boy is ecstatic and walks ahead of them nuzzling his new friend, a robust sire with black and brown markings and a newfound love of licking Ael’s ears.

“He’s doing well with his Latin.” Marcus says, attempting to shake off the heat that his wayward thoughts had brought on, “I thought he didn’t want to learn?”

“I convinced him that it would be practical if nothing else. He still refuses to acknowledge the option of a Roman education in reading, writing, politics, and mathematics. I wouldn’t mind he learned it all alongside our traditions. It would be of great advantage… But give him time. His experience as a Seal prince still far outweighs his time with us.”

Marcus, grinning, can’t help but to bump shoulders with him as they walk. Esca returns the grin briefly, but then gives him a warning look and Marcus reigns in the desire to put his arm around Esca as they walk. Plenty of time to hold him once they are home in private.

……………………

The puppy is called Seagull for seemingly no other reason than a child named him, and the pet has just reached the size where his playful nips have begun to hurt whomever he wants to show affection, but Ael is patient in his training and Marcus notes that he never screams at the dog or hits it. The Roman finds himself unaccountably moved nearly to tears over pride in the little man for being nothing like his violent savage father. He contributes this entirely to Esca’s influence until one day, Ael looks at Marcus, head cocked to one side. “Father, are we always going to live here?”

Marcus is so taken aback by the address he barely understands the question. As silence falls flat in place of an amiable response, Ael grows visibly wary of him and inches out of arm’s reach.

Stunned, Marcus looks at this child—on the cusp of manhood—and sees a boy who has been taught to fear the head of the house his entire life now extending cautious trust in him. Though how he earned the address of Father is completely bewildering to the Roman.

Marcus’ heart clenches, and he chokes, but focuses on answering the question, “Y—yes, Ael…. I am Uncle Aquila’s heir. This is our home.” He stretches his lips into a smile that hopefully reflects the warmth that is slowly unfurling in his chest at the notion of being someone’s father after all.

It is a terrifying pressure, but it tingles.

In a vivid flicker of light, Marcus sees the man Ael might one day be: tall, agile, and clever—perhaps a surgeon after all--but known for his exemplary hunting dogs, and his kindness. To have any part in such a man’s development would be a great honor, and Marcus can hardly breathe for fear that he will mess it up. After all, he lost his father at this age, and therefore has no model to look to as Ael becomes a man.

“Do you like it here?” Marcus asks, worried that the boy misses the wilds of the north.

To his relief, Ael’s nerves ease and a small smile plays at the corners of his mouth. He nods, but looks determinedly sour as he says something in broken Latin. Marcus hears Esca’s name and the word ‘tutor’ along with the same resignation found in any boy forced to sit down for lessons. Esca has been speaking of hiring a Roman tutor for the boy and Marcus puts two and two together.

“Yes, you will need a tutor.” he says sternly, but with a smile. “You cannot become a man otherwise.”

Ael blinks at him and then asks shyly, “You will help me?”

“I will,” Marcus instantly promises. He finds it hard enough to fill his day. Helping a child with lessons would swallow a few hours between nights with Esca, at least. But more than that, he intends to pass all his knowledge onto his son. “I am best at numbers. Do you like numbers?”

Ael pulls a dubious face and lifts his shoulders. Marcus chuckles. “Numbers can be like puzzles, and solving them keeps your mind sharp like a blade. You want a sharp mind don’t you?”

The boy nods enthusiastically. Marcus shrugs. “Then I will help you. It will be fun.”

“Thank you, Father.”

The heartfelt moment lasts for another few tenuous seconds before Ael grins bashfully and darts outside. As if pulled after him by a string just tethered to his heart, Marcus goes to the door and leans there to watch the yard, where the overgrown pup sleeps in the sun. When Ael whistles a long, haunting note, the animal jumps to follow at its master’s heels for the daily hunt.

The wind moves the trees and pushes the smell of wheat inside the open house and though he does not _hear_ Ael’s voice with his ears, it is almost like the wind whispers the words, _I will return_ alongside the mental image of a sundial marking late evening.

The small hairs rise on his arms yet Marcus smiles as he watches the boy fly over the hills on his swift native feet. It is nothing that either Briton will ever confirm to Marcus, but he will continue to marvel at such powers so long as such mystic things keep happening around the child.

A touch on his flank startles Marcus, and Esca laughs as he slinks under Marcus’ arm like a cat to nuzzle his chest. “Has he run off without dinner again?”

“They will catch good game.”

Esca hums. Marcus presses his lips into the warm roots of Esca’s thick hair. His heart fills over-stuffed and throbs distantly. “He just called me father.”

The way Esca freezes and tenses gives away his guilt. Marcus laughs. “You did not say you spoke of me in such a way to him.”

“He saw us retire one night, and he feared…”

“What did he fear?” Marcus asks sharply, though Esca’s tone has said it all.

“I needed only to explain that our relationship is one of love,” Esca says casually. “And that you think of him as a son the same way I do. He is no longer afraid of you. Though I fear the two of you are strangers. That is why a roman tutor has become necessary. I had hoped it would give you something to talk about.”

Marcus gulps, “I do not know how to be a father.”

“Yes you do.” Esca kisses his lips tenderly and leaves it at that, though Marcus is not one hundred percent convinced just yet. His mind flies ahead to the infinite opportunities in the boy’s future, the numerous challenges he will face for being so proudly British. How is he supposed to help Ael face those people who will punish him for his heritage? Marcus had faced ridicule for something out of his control, but he met that challenge by becoming the perfect Roman solider and correcting his father’s mistakes.

But Ael can not do it that way. For one, he will never be the perfect Roman. For another, he could not correct the history of savagery in his forefathers. There will be no relic to simply find and return home to solve Ael’s problems. How, then, can he guide Ael as a father is meant to guide a son?

Then Esca squeezes his ribs, and all at once Marcus realizes he will not be guiding Ael alone.

With Marcus’ understanding and advice on how to live Roman and Esca’s understanding of the boy’s mystic roots, there will be no challenge they cannot meet as a team….as a family. It is rather less conventional than Marcus had originally planned, but this is the very life a younger Marcus had always planned on living; settled, with a warm soul to share his bed, and a child to guide into manhood.

With a final kiss to the top of Esca’s head, Marcus goes to the house alter to thank Mithras for such a blessing.

**Author's Note:**

> Whenever I write domestic fics where my favorite pairings have children, I find it nearly impossible to end the story. I guess I just want it to keep going until this kids are grown and the grandkids are grown and they die holding hands like in the Notebook. Anyway, didn’t have time for that here. I wanted to post before Christmas.   
> Merry Christmas!


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